


Hard Day's Night

by starlabsforever



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Cisco gets to be angry, Gen, Working through feelings, trying to make amends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlabsforever/pseuds/starlabsforever
Summary: Caitlin and Cisco, two months after her return to Team Flash. 3 AM, a sprained knee, guacamole, and a severely wounded friendship.





	Hard Day's Night

The Cortex was about the only place that Cisco could have wound up alone with Caitlin. He rarely ventured into any other part of STAR these days, besides his workshop, and she seemed to understand that she wasn’t welcome there.

It’s not that he was avoiding her. Well, maybe he was, but not because he hated her, like Iris, or was suspicious of her, like Harry. If he was telling the truth, he had no idea how he felt about Caitlin right now. They had barely spoken since her return to the team two months ago, which was funny, because you’d think they’d have a lot to talk about. Instead, they orbited around each other.  They only spoke when necessity called for it, and even then, they had other members of the team as buffers. Cisco could never quite bring himself to look her in the eye, but to be fair, she never even looked his direction anymore.  Avoiding each other’s eyes was a carefully choreographed routine, dancing around the broken pieces of a friendship.

It was a dance that they both seemed equally committed to, which was why he thought that limping across the Cortex without her noticing would be easy enough. He staggered across the big, empty, room, nursing his sore arm and trying to keep the weight off of his wrenched knee and focused his eye on the glass double-doors-

“What are you doing?”

He hated how his pulse fluttered at the sound of her voice, hard and sharp. He jumped a little, and then had to bite his tongue to keep from howling in agony, because his knee was seriously effed up. He forced himself to straighten his knee so that he stood taller. The abused joint throbbed in protest and he exhaled shallowly, trying to ease the pain.

He realized that Caitlin was watching him keenly. He flickered his eyes to her face and her gaze shifted to his earlobe.

Like clockwork.

Just as he realized she was still waiting for a response, she glanced down at his bent leg. “You’re favoring your left side." 

“No, I’m not,” he said lamely.

Her eyes narrowed. “Then come tango with me.”

“Hard pass,” he said, and made a break for the medbay. She followed him, which both surprised him and ticked him off.

Surprised because she never seemed to want to be alone with him any more than he did.

Ticked off because she _knew_ he didn’t want to be alone with her any more than she did.

She hung in the doorway as he rummaged clumsily through the supplies for a cold pack, one of the ones that created an endothermic reaction when you cracked it like a glowstick. He heaved himself onto the cot so that he could stretch his leg out.

Her voice echoed and bounced off of the high ceiling. "You need to elevate that."

“I know," he shot back, because in his hurry to relieve the pain he’d completely forgotten. He pulled out the pillows from behind his back and worked them underneath his leg.

He heard the _click-click_ of her heeled boots, and she was kneeling beside the cot, unearthing the spare pillows stowed beneath it. She reached for his leg, because she was in doctor autopilot mode, and he flinched away. His knee flared up like hell and he yelped.

He took a few shallow breaths and then realized she was still standing there, frozen in place. Her eyes were crossed with a flicker of emotion that he couldn’t place. He had once been able to read her like a book, and he felt an inexplicable pang of loss knowing that was no longer the case. 

Whatever had been bothering her, she apparently got over it, because she stood up and stepped back. “Do you have any other injuries?” she asked in her doctor voice.

“Don’t think so,” he said honestly.

She raised a thin, pale eyebrow, apparently unconvinced.“Your pupils are dilated. You might have a concussion.” 

She turned to her cabinets, and he sat back, reeling for reasons he didn't fully understand. Something about being back in the med bay with her bothered him deeply. He had started taking care of his own injuries after she left and had seen no reason to stop when she returned. Taking care of him- everyone, but especially him -used to be her place. It had been a comfort to him, even, but now he felt unreasonably irritated at seeing this distant stranger slide into the part of his life that used to be occupied by his best friend. Thinking about it made his head pound, and the bitingly bright flashlight that she clicked on right in his eyes didn’t help.

“Keep your eyes open,” she said when he blinked rapidly. She scrutinized his pupils, apparently immune to eye contact when it was for medical purposes. “Mm. Does your head hurt?”

“Yeah, but it’s probably just-” He stopped himself in time and let the sentence die in his throat.

She glanced towards him, her eyes dark and sharp. “Probably just what?”

He gave in. “Probably just the migraine.” Against his better judgment, he added, “You know, the chronic one I’ve had for months.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, you wouldn’t know, because you left.”

He wasn’t proud of his own pettiness. Mostly.

Caitlin blinked. “Your eyes look okay, so I don’t think you have a concussion. Are you in pain anywhere else?” He shook his head. His elbow was definitely bruised, and he felt sore and achy all over, but he was fairly certain nothing was broken. She went back to the drawers that she’d once kept so orderly, but after her absence had fallen into a disarray that she didn’t seem to care to fix. He pressed his head into the pillow and closed his eyes.

How pathetic was it that he was so out of touch with his once best friend that he was being snarky just because he didn’t know how else to talk to her?

How fair was it that he resented her so much, when they’d given out chances to people like Hartley and Snart and even Savitar, who’d committed worse crimes and been fully present in their own minds when they’d done it?

How weird was it that forgiving her had seemed easier when she had been full Killer Frost?

How stupid was it that even though he’d given her the choice to accept or reject the cure, he still wished that she had taken it?

How angry was he that the Caitlin that he knew was gone and probably never coming back?

The questions rattled around nauseatingly inside of him. He opened his eyes rolled onto his side, purposely un-elevating his leg because he was so tired and bruised up that he felt justified in displaying the emotional maturity of a kindergartner. He heard the familiar sounds of her unpackaging a sterile syringe and she turned back around.

“Morphine,” she said to his unasked question. “I know how your Vibe headaches can get.” She placed it on the cot next to him, and it took him a moment to realize she wanted him to do it himself. He picked it up and his hands shook a little. He felt her eyes on him as he injected the syringe into his thigh, and he winced as the needle pricked his skin and sent the morphine running cold through his bloodstream. He held out the used syringe and she took it from the other end, carefully avoiding his touch. He wondered if she was afraid to touch him or if she just knew that he was.

Caitlin turned away to toss the syringe and he laid back against the pillow.  “How did this happen?” she asked. It took him a moment to realize that she was referring to his injuries.

Cisco stared ahead, avoiding her eyes again. “Just patrol tonight. I got distracted when I was throwing a boom and I wasn’t ready for the recoil.”

She turned a sharp eye on him. “I’m surprised your injuries aren’t worse.”

His ears burned. “I was just off my game tonight. I’ve actually improved a lot since you left.”

“I know,” she said evenly. “That’s what I meant. If all you have from the recoil is a sprained knee, you’ve improved a lot.”

Oh.

She appraised him. “You should rest that for a few hours.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 3:46 AM. “You might as well spend the night here, but I’m not going to hold you captive.”

“That’s an improvement,” he said before he could stop himself.

She went very, very still for a moment. Then she turned away quickly and her pale hair slipped in front of her face like an arctic waterfall. “I’ll be in my lab if you need something.”

She strode out of the room. Cisco slid onto his back and exhaled. He felt sick to his stomach. He told himself it was because of the morphine.

That had been his first real interaction with Caitlin since she came back, so he was only just realizing how different she was. She hadn’t retaliated to the crap he was giving her, she hadn’t hovered and told him not to get up. That was because they were keeping their distance from each other, he reminded himself, but it was also because she had changed. She was so subdued and apathetic. Detached. It probably didn’t help that he was being kind of a dick, but being alone with Caitlin brought out all kinds of uneasy feelings in him, and he didn’t handle uneasiness well.

His stomach churned and he groaned, rolling back over to his side. Morphine on an empty stomach apparently wasn’t a great idea. He had Taco Universe leftovers in the fridge, so he sat up and pushed himself to his feet. He tentatively shifted weight onto his knee, and it throbbed vaguely, but the morphine was starting to kick in. He poked his head out and glanced towards the glass wall of Caitlin’s lap to see if she was looking. Not that she would care much, but she would probably say something about his knee.

She wasn’t watching. She was slumped over her desk, resting her head on top of her arms. Her hair formed a messy halo around her head, with stray strands clinging to her black turtleneck. Was she sleeping? He couldn’t blame her. She’d been working her ass off for the team ever since she came back. Even though he’d been taking care of his own injuries, she still had to patch up Wally, Jesse, and occasionally Cynthia. On top of that, she ran the comms with Harry and was always working on biotech to help them. She was working herself to the bone for people who were lukewarm towards her on good days, and they didn't have a lot of good days.

He remembered his burrito objective and hobbled over to the breakroom. He rummaged in the fridge for the paper sack he was looking for. He sunk onto the couch with his bag in hand, because even though the morphine was in his system, his knee would still be sore as hell tomorrow. He tore into the half burrito and yep, it was still just as good cold. A few minutes later, he saw her blurry shape in the corner of his eye and jumped.

He clutched at his chest. “How long were you there?”

She glanced at the burrito in his hand. “I told you to let me know if you needed anything.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

She pursed her lips. “You should be elevating your leg.”

“Morphine is good stuff.”

He expected her to- or hoped she would -say something like _it’ll still be sore tomorrow._ Instead, she stood silently in the doorway.He looked her up and down, really seeing her for the first time all night. The first time in months. She looked pale- well, more so than usual, which made the bruised-looking shadows under her eyes stand out even more. Her eyes were dull from the kind of weariness that went deeper than physical exhaustion.

He wondered if she ever slept. He wondered what she thought about when she didn't. He wondered if he should cut her a break.

“Can you bring me that chair?” He gestured across the room. “To, uh, to elevate my leg with.”

She looked at him wordlessly and then nodded. She dragged it across the room and then paused, looking uncertain.

“Can you-” He exhaled. “I mean, I can't really move my leg that well. Can you-" He trailed off awkwardly.

She nodded again and reached for his leg. He could feel her icy fingers even through his jeans, and he had to force himself not to wince as she moved his leg gently, carefully to the chair.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Of course. The morphine’s kicking in?”

“Oh yeah.”

She nodded, pursing her lips again. She stood awkwardly by the couch, as if she was waiting for him to ask her for something else. After a weighted silence, she turned for the door.

“Wait,” he half-shouted.

She froze and turned her head towards him. “What do you need?”

He shifted and turned to look at her over the back of the couch. “I’m sorry for being such a prick.”

Her hair slipped out from behind her ear, obscuring her face again. “You’re in pain.”

He shook his head. “Not just now. I mean ever since you got back.”

Her spine stiffened. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“No, I think I actually have a lot to apologize for. I haven’t been giving you a fair chance and that’s not cool of me, so-” She had turned back around and was watching him with her dark brown eyes. Their eyes locked for the first time since the graveyard. He swallowed, feeling like he’d had the wind knocked out of him, but he held her gaze. Even across the room and in the dim fluorescent light, her eyes were as wide as a caged rabbit's.

She sighed, but it sounded more like a whimper. He waited for her to respond, his heart thrumming with every second that she was silent. Some ten seconds later, he couldn't bear it, but she started at the same moment, and they were tripping over each other's words, speaking at the same time.

"Cisco-"

“Caitlin-”

They both broke off and stared some more, waiting for the other to finish their sentence because they were too afraid to. There was another long pause. He glanced down at his paper bag and fished in it. He pulled out the small container of guacamole and stared at it. 

“Do you want this?” he asked.

She shifted. Then she clicked over to the coffee table and sat down in an armchair on the other side. He set the guacamole down on the table, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

“You don’t need to forgive me,” she said in a quiet, measured voice. “That’s not what I need from you.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. “What do you need from me?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

He leaned over and pushed the guacamole across the the coffee table. She stared down at it, looking vulnerable and all kinds of worn out. A few seconds later he realized she would probably want chips too, so he shook out the last at the bottom of the bag. The ones he had rejected because they were broken, or too small, or oddly discolored. What a gesture.

It wasn’t much. It was all he was willing to offer.

Caitlin ate the chips.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you feel so inclined- I really appreciate it!


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